


Contingencies

by RuBecSo



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Alcohol, Anxiety, M/M, Neither of these idiots know how to express themselves, Overthinking, Pre-Relationship, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 02:55:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20268865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuBecSo/pseuds/RuBecSo
Summary: “I could get used to this.”"Isn't that the danger?"In early 1920, in a fancy hotel room with Charlie, Meyer lets his mask slip for a moment.





	Contingencies

Meyer had lived in tenements smaller than this hotel room. 

He stubbed out his burnt-down cigarette in the crystal ashtray on the mahogany coffee table and looked over to the couch opposite. Charlie was lounging with his head lolled back and one hand draped over the armrest, a cigarette hanging loosely from his fingers. He was in his shirt sleeves; the jacket AR had had tailored for him was thrown over one of the chairs. Meyer was still wearing his. It was the first one he’d owned that wasn’t either too long in the arms or too tight in the shoulders.

Charlie let out a long, contented sigh.

“I could get used to this.” 

Meyer fished out his silver cigarette case (also courtesy of AR) and took out the last one remaining. 

“Isn’t that the danger?”

The words were out before he could catch them. Several glasses of good scotch had loosened his usually ironclad control over his tongue. As he tapped down the cigarette, he watched Charlie through the corner of his eye. His friend had shifted in his seat, no longer slouching as much as he sat to attention. 

“What’s that mean?” 

His tone sent a hot prickle working its way up Meyer’s neck. 

“I don’t know.” He shrugged as he went to light his smoke. “Forget I said anything.” 

Charlie sat up and leaned forward. His chin was slightly tucked in; he looked over at Meyer from under his thick, Sicilian brows. 

“I ain’t going soft, Meyer.” 

“I know.” 

“You don’t gotta worry about that.” 

“I know.” 

Charlie fussed at the couch upholstery, tracing patterns with one finger as he spoke. 

“So what you worrying about?”

“I’m not.” 

He rolled his eyes. “Oh come on, Little Meyer. I know that look.” 

Meyer took a long drag on his cigarette, held it in for a few seconds, then sighed out smoke. He flipped his lighter over a couple of times in his hand. 

“We’re doing well, right?” he replied after a few moments’ silence, “We’ve got a good thing going here.” 

“Right…” He dragged the word out, uncertain. 

“So we’ve got more to lose if something goes wrong.” 

Charlie’s frown deepened. “You reckon something could?” 

A scoff escaped through Meyer’s nose. 

“Charlie, I’ve got a running list in my head of things that _ could _ go wrong. I always do.” 

The words didn’t come out like he’d meant them to. In his head they’d sounded reassuring: _ It’s fine, I’ve got this _. When they reached his ears, there was a brittleness to them that almost made him wince.

“It’s not about what could go wrong,” he added before Charlie could respond, “it’s about making sure we ain’t blind-sided wh— _ if _ it does. Keeping all the possible contingencies in mind.” 

There was a huff of laughter from across the room. Meyer’s head snapped up at the sound. 

“What?”

Charlie was grinning at him. “You’re starting to talk like AR.” 

“He’s a smart man.” He sounded more defensive than he’d have liked. Why couldn’t he get his voice to do what he wanted it to? 

“He is.” Charlie nodded once, a slow, sleepy motion. “You think he keeps all those, all those consistencies…” 

“Contingencies.” 

“Yeah, that. You think he keeps all those in that big head of his, for all the rackets he’s got going?” 

Meyer shrugged again. “Probably. That’s why he’s successful.” 

Charlie laughed. “Miracle his skull don’t bust open.” 

For a few moments neither of them spoke, cigarette smoke filling the air between them. Then Charlie broke the silence: 

“That list of yours. How long is it?” 

Meyer frowned. “What, for this business now or for the whole outfit?” 

Charlie made a wide, circling gesture. “The whole thing.” 

He tilted his head to the side and his eyes drifted upwards as he thought about it. 

“Depends if you count the things that could only happen if something else goes wrong first.” 

('Ricochet fuck-ups', he liked to call those ones.) 

“But it’s somewhere between thirty and fifty.” 

He looked back at Charlie. His lips were quirked at the side and he had a glint in his eye. It was the same look he’d given him years back when they’d first met, when Meyer had refused to hand over his pocket change. The one that said_ I can’t believe I found this kid. _

For some reason, it set a cold, tight feeling in Meyer’s chest. 

“So what kinda things are on it?” 

Meyer flicked ash into the tray. He wished he would drop this. 

“Off the top of my head?” He took a deep breath and started counting on his fingers. “One of our trucks gets robbed. Someone finds a way to get shipments in cheaper and undercuts us. The prohis actually get their act together. Masseria starts trying to muscle in. AR decides the risks ain’t worth the profits. Benny finally kills someone he ain’t supposed to. Frank fucks up, you fuck up, I fuck up…” 

“Well that ain’t gonna happen—” 

“It _ could _, Charlie.” 

The air hung silent after he snapped. He hadn’t realised how much the volume of his voice had crept up. He noticed his hand was gripping the armrest of his chair. His cigarette was burnt down almost to his fingers. He stubbed it out, nails beating a drum against the crystal ashtray. He closed his eyes, clenched and unclenched his jaw, took a long, shaking breath in and out. The hot prickle was spreading up his neck again. He should have just brushed the question off, found some way to get Charlie to drop it. He felt like he was watching an accident he was unable to prevent. 

There was a clink of glass on wood. He opened his eyes to see Charlie placing a tumbler of scotch down on the coffee table. He must have gotten up and refilled both their glasses. Meyer took it, not looking up. 

“I’m not worrying.” 

He stared into his drink as he spoke, as if conjuring visions in the amber liquid. His school-teacher, eyeing his slight frame and asking if he was getting enough to eat back home. His mother, always checking he had his coat before he left the house. His father, glancing down at the bruises on his knuckles, saying nothing. 

He took a drink, feeling the warmth run down his throat and melt some of the ice that had settled in his stomach.

“I’m just keeping ahead of things.” 

Charlie hadn’t returned to the couch. He was perched on the armrest of the armchair next to Meyer’s. 

“I get it.” 

Meyer looked up at him, into those brown, owlish eyes, and for a moment he thought _ Yes. You do, don’t you. _

Then Charlie reached out and ruffled his hair. Meyer flinched reflexively, batting at his hand like a startled cat. 

“Fuck off, what’re you doing?” 

Charlie shrank back, a sheepish look on his face. 

“Y’know, just…” he smirked playfully, “…checking for cracks.” 

“Fuck you.” His smile crept into his words. He downed the remainder of his drink. “I’m going to bed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Here, have another fic where I project my anxiety / trauma responses onto Meyer.
> 
> 'Ricochet fuck-ups' was originally 'Fractal fuck-ups', but it turns out that's an anachronism. This version's more characterful anyway.
> 
> There's a really cryptic literary allusion in the last ~100 words or so and I'll be impressed if anyone gets it.
> 
> As always, feedback is massively appreciated.


End file.
